The Return of a Curse
by Hannah-Little
Summary: North's once-hospitable home becomes a walled-fortress in a battle against Pitch and his new-allied forces, as the semi-centennial meeting of the Immortals (a feast in honor of not just the five Guardians, but all beings with important tasks) turns to chaos. New allies and shaky friendships are tested as Pitch reveals his true intentions are less than one-sided.
1. Introductions

One would never have believed that the people sitting around the long table were considered Guardians, Immortals, protectors of children or the righteous or important duties that made the world go around. In fact, you wouldn't have believed many of them were over the age of 3, let alone 300. And there had been a lot more than North had expected.

When the bold and kind-hearted man had agreed to host the semi-centennial meeting of the Immortals, he had all but forgotten just how many jobs were watched over outside of the Guardians. The answer was, quite a few. Cupid sat beside Tooth, flashing a rather dashing smile as he leant back, a hand brushing through his golden hair as he recounted some funny tale or another and Tooth tried not to swoon. North cast his knowing gaze only a few feet along the table, expecting to see Jack's pale hand curl in jealousy of either Cupid's popularity, or the way he had Tooth beaming dreamily, but the lad was preoccupied with a certain leprechaun who had had more than a little wine and was cheerfully but forcefully grabbing the wintery-lad's sleeve so he was forced to listen to his god-awful jokes or risk pulling away and seeming rude.

North almost missed Bunnymund as he looked up from his dinner and surveyed the room, until he noticed the pooka with his grey head face-down on the table, ears pressed flat to his skull, trying to silence the insistent chatter of a certain groundhog beside him, which was accompanied by the constant shifting sound of Sandy's sand-pictures and the mad and the wicked cackling of Lector, his jack-o-lantern mask's mouth spewing light-motes and laughter. And all the way up and down the table, faeries and waifs and figures of all shape, size and species chattered and drank and ate, or sat and simply enjoyed (or _tried_ to enjoy) the atmosphere. Rank did not matter here; a job no matter how big or small was appreciated. North paused, and even his own kindly and loving eyes had to take a moment to not critically regard the figure who sat at one end of the table, his chair pulled a little apart from everyone else.

Death had not come to the last banquet, and it surprised North that he had come to this one. The spectre was shrouded in a cloak of some indefinable and mercurial fabric that seemed to reflect no light and moved with him, so that unless he chose to protrude them, his arms seemed nonexistent, along with any shape to his body. His dry and cracked skeleton mask had been pulled back a fraction, enough that his mouth was clear for eating, and the skin underneath was featureless, shiny and black, and a mouthful of white, thin, sharp and almost clumsy teeth came into view every time he tentatively opened his mouth for a bite of his meal.

Even North's overwhelming pity for the lonely-looking figure, hunched in a youthful way that made him seem younger than himself, could not override a sense of dread and fear that rose in his spine whenever he laid eyes on Death.

Little did North know, as he turned back to his meal and heartily returned a bantering joke with a person to his left, that a shiver up the spine would soon be the least of everyone's worries.


	2. A Shudder of Smoke

"Mind I sit here?"

The warm voice, one that was not the Irish-tinted ramblings of a drunken leprechaun, took Jack by surprise, and he looked up to see a young woman that looked of his or Tooth's age smiling warmly. It was not one of those perfect, straight-white-toothed smiles, but it was a smile that was reassuring and kindly, and she chuckled as her eyes fully took in the scene she had stumbled into.

"Ernie?" The leprechaun looked up at his name and smiled drunkenly,

"Wassat?" He slurred in a good-natured fashion. The girl pulled up a chair beside him and smiled gently,

"Have you been at the wine again?"

"Ssshhhruhh...maybe?"

"I think you have, haven't you?"

"Fffr-yeaaah...yesh I have."

"Then I think it's time for you to stop now don't you?" She smiled warmly, patting the dumb-founded leprechaun's hand with a gaunt and warm hand of her own. At this proximity, Jack could smell the fresh-cut grass scent that hung around her as she chuckled patiently at the ginger-haired man before her,

"Tell you what? I think Jacques over there has been dying to hear your jokes all evening," she nodded to the self-proclaimed King of Comedy, the Immortal of April Fool's Day, who was sitting cross-legged on a chair and grinning in his lop-sided jester hat as he juggled some fruit from the table, "Why don't you head on over and give him a sample, eh?"

Jack realised he had been holding his breath, hoping against hope that the girl's sweet-talking had worked, that the short and noisy man would finally stop telling him the same jokes over and over until he was sure his head would burst (Ernie being too drunk to recall more than four, or even the last one he'd told). Another pat of the hand and a lop-sided but captivating grin from the girl, and the leprechaun seemed won-over, gathering his precious alcohol and trundling off to his next unwitting audience.

Jack exhaled heavily, before smiling wryly as the girl fixed one of the flowers in the thick and waxy plait that wrapped around her head, keeping her hair up and scraped back,

"I owe you one."

She looked up and smiled, creasing up the freckles across her nose. Polar opposite to him in composite it seemed, her skin seemed to have a warm and summery golden-glow about it, her hair the solid and homely colour of a corn or wheat field.

"Think nothing of it. Ernie is, believe me, an excellent conversationalist at any other time, but when he gets around the alcohol," she gestured witheringly, yet lovingly in the direction of the leprechaun who was now assaulting poor Jacques with the same three jokes in a loop, "Well, I don't need to tell you, do I?"

She chuckled, then held out a hand,

"Mother Earth, Harvest Goddess, or whatever you want to call it," she introduced herself, before smirking, "Though I've always found that "Fae'' works a whole lot better." Jack took her hand, and while he always found everyone else's touches to be warm compared to his, it was fair to note that her skin was noticeably warmer than most's. He chuckled good-naturedly as he shook, offering a small shrug,

"It's Jack," he paused, grinning a little sheepishly, "But, uh, considering I'm a Guardian, I'd guess you'd already have heard, no offence, but you know, uh-"

Fae cut him off with an easy smile, waving a hand,

"It's fine, it's fine! I know what you mean," she chuckled, before sipping idly from her own cup, which she had brought up with her along with her plate. She straightened out her dress, her feet bare and well-walked on-looking, as she grinned earnestly,

"I've got to ask though, what's it like being a Guardian?"

Jack leant back in his chair, twirling his staff idly with one hand with a proud smirk,

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't great. Well-," he shrugged carelessly as he shot a grin towards the others, "that is, after I taught these guys a thing or two about having some fun!"

A roaring laugh came across the table, forcing those nearest to cover their ears, as North slapped his belly and bellowed heartily,

"Is that so Jack?" came the large Russian's booming chuckle, "As I am remembering it, you were always with the brooding and the moping and the-"

Jack laughed, floating a little off his chair so that they were eye-level, cutting him off,

"Oh please, you and I BOTH know that-"

"For the last bloody time, or so help me God your ruddy tail's gonna be out of here!"

Jack and North's good-humoured banter was cut short, and all but a few of the many heads turned abruptly as Bunnymund rose with a clatter of tableware to glare across the table at Death, who was pausing mid mouthful to stare in alarm with surprising ease considering his eyes weren't visible. Sandy put a hand on his companion's arm and shook his head with a tutting motion, but the pooka wafted away the man's sandy-images,

"Sandy, every man's gotta bloody limit, mate!"

North frowned and hoisted himself up with a sigh and made his way over as Lector peered is bundle-of-sticks frame around the groundhog, who sat beside him,

"Not wanting to interfere, pal," came his voice, like a cackling echo on a moon-lit night "but what exactly seems to be the problem here?"

Bunnymund pointed across the table, the entire rapt audience following his furry finger, at the area behind Death,

"THAT is the problem mate. He can stop all this bloody heebie-jeebie what-not or he can rack off!"

Everyone turned to Death, who was looking as confused and worried as a shrouded figure could, and turned his own head in alarm to the floor-space behind him. A dark shadow sloshed across the tiles like tar or ink, splashing the floor with the shadow of a dark figure, oozing dread and fear. Bunnymund's eyes lit up in confusion as Death fumbled for his scythe and the small, thin figure back-pedalled in fear at the shadow cast in from the window. The shadow revolved and everyone who could clearly see it made a sound of disbelief and horror as the familiar outline of sharded hair, and sharp, angular features made themselves known.

"That," answered North gravely, "is not Death's doing."


	3. Eleven Seconds

Fear is an odd thing. It could be described as chemical synapses within the central nervous system, a list of symptoms; the heart rate elevates, your adrenal gland releases a burst of adrenaline, you may feel sick as your stomach prepares to empty itself, meaning you're lighter when you run away. But it can never be really measured as something biological.

Scientific notification doesn't really account for that clammy feeling, that sensation in your mouth that makes it feel dry, that feeling that you can't move or even speak...that sensation that your whole life is flashing before you, that sickening dread that blinds you until the only thing you see is your life laid before you and the being that is trying to extinguish it.

There had been a brief calm before the storm. Eleven seconds of calm to be precise. Jacques had stood to see the shadow, and in the same second he clapped eyes on it, Tooth's cup had clattered loudly from her hand and showered in a flurry of broken china that seemed to move far too slowly for Fae, who glanced briefly around the room. Her own eyelids seem to flutter too slowly, like the slow waft of a fan, as North began to say words of encouragement,

"Friends, our time is short-,"

Jack was frowning, and Bunnymund's ears flicked as he heard the sound of the lad's white fist tightening on his staff. Lector was moving to stand, a thin and skeletal hand of sticks and scrap reaching to take Sandy's shoulder, like a slow cloud drifting through time, it's progress seeming to last an eternity. Death's back-pedalling feet made no sound, but Tooth was sure she could hear them in her head; she was mentally counting them. _One_.

"-but we must not lose our wits, we must ally-"

_Two._ A smaller tooth fairy's whimper seemed to ring endlessly like a dull bell, small hands gripping the rim of an ornamental table-vase.

"-together. We are many friends, and he is but one-"

_Three_.

Cupid's strong arms were reaching back for an ornate arrow from his white quiver, the other flicking back for the bow which rested beside it. The string wobbled so...so slowly.

_Four._

"-and we are Immortals-"

_Five_.

Fae's pupils shrank. Someone's fingers drummed the table.

"-all chosen by the Man in Moon-"

Heart's beating fast. _Six_.

Adrenaline shooting through veins.

"-to be courageous-"

_Seven_. Jack's eyes darting.

_Eight_.

Furry ears tensing.

"-to protect-"

Fear.

_Nine_.

No.

A head turning.

Foot tapping.

No, no, no.

A blink.

Panic.

No.

_Ten_.

"-mankind-"

_Eleven_.

Eleven seconds.

A window at the other end of the hall shattered like a fine rain of tiffany snow. Jacque's jester head turned up. For a moment, the King of Comedy was glad of the breaking of the tension. Lector's hand, arrested mid-movement, closed into a fist, glad of a distraction from his comforting gesture, if only for half a second to not think of what was coming.

Head's turned. People ducked and threw up defences or their own arms to cover their heads.

Someone gave a yell of surprise.

And then they descended.


End file.
